Bad Habit II
by Yemam2422
Summary: Post S2, Beth and Rio still can't stop having sex, Beth's POV (Bad Habit I of my pics is Rio's).


The thing about a habit is, the longer it goes on the harder it is to break. The more comforting it becomes. The more indulgent and tempting it is.

Beth likes to fool herself that she's indifferent to Rio. That sex with him is just that. Simply sex. She tries to ignore the building intimacy, tries to dismiss it as a chemical reaction. It is safer not to analyze what is happening. Best to blame it on spontaneous acts of lust and let it go at that. Or try to. Try to believe that she can stop at anytime. She's used to play acting after all. She's been doing that for a long time. Happy wife, content soccer mom. Confident money launderer. Whatever facade is expected, she wears it.

So after they have sex the first time, hard and fast against a wall, then a second time and a third. Again and again. Beth doesn't blame herself. Who would? Who could resist the unspeakable, white-hot pleasure Rio offers. He gives her everything she wants where she wants it – softer or harder, higher or lower – and even what she doesn't know she wants.

Like the time he flops down on the bed on his back. They're both already naked, Beth already anticipating how she thinks this is going to go. But instead of letting her straddle him, Rio nudges her hips to keep her crawling up his body until she's over his mouth and he's making love to her with his tongue. Despite the embarrassment of the new position, the vulnerability of it all, the resistance leaves Beth's muscles. She grabs the headboard, circles her hips, finds her rhythm. Rio holds her tight, laps his tongue over her wet, swollen flesh until her thighs tighten against his head, until she's moaning and trembling over him.

Beth likes experimenting with Rio. One night after Annie reads her the highlights from a magazine about sex positions during a Real Housewives commercial break, Beth files it away. Until the next night with Rio when she holds her knees up against her chest. When that feels good she drapes them over his shoulders, surrendering control of the angle and speed to Rio. He takes it, honors it, and Beth gives herself over to how good he fucks her.

But new positions also mean new intimacy. That insight comes after Rio flips her onto her stomach, yanks up her hips so she's resting on her elbows. When he slides inside her, she shudders from the intensity of the sensations. But that's not what makes it her new favorite position. It's the way he circles an arm around her, pulls her up so she's kneeling with him, her back against his chest, their bodies tight together. Beth's arms wrap behind her, up his legs, around his head. Rio turns her face to his. They kiss. And they don't stop kissing until they're both limp and sex drunk.

It's interesting how habits change. How quickly they can become a craving. Beth knows she's in trouble, slipping without any chance to catch herself, when it's not sex with Rio that warms the hiding places in her mind, in her heart, but the little moments in between. As much as they indulge each other, playing and teasing and tantalizing, Beth finds comfort in stillness with Rio. Ever since finding him sitting on her kitchen counter, she's been in constant motion, hoping her crimes won't catch up with her, that her feelings won't solidify. But in those quiet, sometimes motionless moments with Rio, she becomes aware of everything about him.

It starts with Rio's smile. He's kissing her one night. A lazy evening without kids, without work. She can't exactly pinpoint what makes his kiss so good. It isn't the shape of his lips, their softness, the perfect pressure. It's something unknown to her. He kisses her as if her kisses are the only ones he wants. When she wiggles her hips against him, silently urging him for more, she feels a slow smile against her neck, his breath fast and warm on her skin. She can picture perfectly the crooked curve of his lips, the light crinkle in his eyes. And something melts inside her, floats away. Afterward, still feeling the aftershock of Rio's touch, sweaty and panting, he turns to her and smiles again, small but sweet. Eventually, it's not the way he feels when he's deep inside her or bending her over a table or exploring her body with his lips that linger, that flash in her mind before falling asleep. No, it's the crooked smirk when he's proud of her, the full blown smile that shows all his teeth and reaches his eyes. He's so stingy with that one.

She notices little things like that now. And it scares her. It scares her that she can feel the difference if he has more stubble than usual. Like when he stops by to drop off dirty money, pick up the clean. It's late, really late, but that's normal. What's not is when he doesn't count the money in her bag. He always counts the money. Stunned, Beth watches him simply place the duffel bag on the floor, walk up to her. Ever so lightly he turns her hips until her body is perfectly aligned with his. Delicious spirals of anticipation tingle through her, down to the tips of her toes. She tilts her head back. Then a little more to meet his eyes. Soundlessly, Rio's hands slide down Beth's back so he can pull her solidly against him. She wants to kiss him, wants him to kiss her. But before he does he nuzzles her neck, tickling her, rubbing hard enough to scratch her skin, purposefully mark her. She can immediately tell he hadn't shaved that day. She's reminded of that later when he maps her skin with open-mouthed kisses, down her neck, her chest, her stomach, between her legs.

The strength of his arms also becomes familiar. Being wrapped in them becomes her definition of safety and comfort. She's reminded of this when they do a drop together and it goes terribly wrong. The dealer pulls a gun on her, holds it to the middle of her forehead, his finger bouncing on the trigger. Rio pulls his gun, but that's not what gets them out of it, scratch free. It's the precision of the threat in Rio's words, his mastery of manipulation and power. They ride to her house in silence. When they're inside her kitchen they stare at each other trying to make sense of what just happened. Of how much danger they'd just escaped. How they didn't care as much as they should have because this thing between them always seems worth it. Beth sees a desperate look cross Rio's eyes, like he can't bear not to touch her, to be touched. He blinks it away before backing her up against the kitchen table, cupping the back of her neck, the other at her hip, yanking her against him, lifting her up onto the table as if she is weightless. He rubs his erection against her. Beth gasps. Even after all the times they've been together, she's still not used to his size. Their hands move with furious speed at buttons and zippers. Rio grips himself with one hand, settles between her legs. Beth lifts her hips, seeks him out and moves with him, her hips lifting and thrusting and rising with his.

Another small habit forms. Beth starts cooking for Rio. He's not a sandwich guy but he does love grilled cheese. When she serves him Gruyere and white cheddar on sourdough with caramelized onions he tells her it's the best thing he's ever eaten. Never one for exaggerations or false compliments, Beth knows he means it. Another little piece of her floats away, settles onto him. When she makes him her own version of his favorite hash brown-stuffed eggs, Rio is speechless. He leans across the counter, presses a soft kiss to her lips, before devouring the dish.

Beth uncovers Rio's little secrets too. Like he's ticklish. Along his sides and under his arms. She likes to wake him up by tracing lazy lines down his chest, over the three scars that serve as constant reminders of not only their tortured past but their path of healing, down the ridges of his abs, the v-lines below his stomach. If that doesn't work, she knows just the spots to scratch and pinch to get him laughing and wiggling.

Beth isn't surprised to learn that Rio likes to talk during sex. If sex with him is a shot of good tequila, silky and complex and lingering, his words are the lick of salt beforehand, preparing her for the pulse of lust about to tear through her body. Low whispers of what he wants to do to her, what she does to him. His husky tone, the sizzling imagery, are enough to work her into frenzy.

There's the time they go almost two weeks without seeing each other. Schedules and drops and sick kids disrupt their normal routine. So when they do see each other again, Beth looks into his eyes, the dark serious eyes she loves. The eyes she missed. She loops her arms around his neck and tugs him down for a kiss. Her hands dart to his pants, tug at them. Before Rio can move, she kneels between his legs and takes him in her hand. She's silent for a moment, staring at him as if she's mesmerized. She wants to say something, there's a knot in her stomach from the words she won't, or can't, voice about how she feels. Instead she wraps her hand tighter and strokes up and down until he starts to shudder. Then she bends lower and licks, swirling her tongue over the head, licking as if he's a piece of candy. Her murmurs mix with his moans. She wraps her lips tight, takes more. Pleasure shoots between them. He laces his hands in her hair, thrust into her mouth, but lets her lead. She takes him all, sucks him to the base, and then licks her way back up. She picks up the pace, and her mouth is fast on him, desperate to express what she can through a physical act rather than words

The line blurs quickly for Beth. Between what is work and what is pleasure. Work became Rio and pleasure became Rio and so much that was meaningful and important in her life pointed back to Rio. She doesn't know how to change that or even if she wants to.


End file.
